Just by switching the verb tense, a sweet sensory delight of a Christmas carol can be turned into a reflection of gossip. At best, it's a reflection of reputation. Separating out talking about someone as part of their reputation as opposed to gossip can be a little tricky and often needs clearly-defined morals and circumstances, both of which can be difficult to ascertain in and of themselves. Still, our reputations are important to us. What people think of us on and off the grapevine really matters. Their judgments of our actions can tip the balance over future opportunities and relationships. This is where real life gets a little hinky, because if you haven't figured out how true this little cliche is yet, you are about to: appearances can be deceiving.
***Reader warning--subject matter to follow may not be appropriate for all readers***
For instance, there was a night I went over to Bob's house to watch a movie. Bob and I have both agreed that we will not have sex until our wedding night, an expected but not-often followed idea in our society. We want to follow God's will for sexual relationships. My reputation is also included in this--many people know I am still a virgin, and I want to have that reputation intact on my wedding day. While we are physically affectionate, even to an extent in public, there are very clear lines drawn that the two of us do not cross.
So on this movie night, I plop down on his living room floor (more comfy than the two-seater couch by a long shot) and curl up under a blanket with a pillow to watch the film. He joins me, keeping some distance but still cuddling around my blanket cocoon. It's been a long week for both of us--his job is extremely physically taxing while my three jobs wear me out mentally and emotionally. We're well-fed, warm, and tired. Guess what happens? That's right--we fall asleep. I wake up disoriented, still wrapped securely in my blankets just a few inches away from Bob. I look at the clock. It's after midnight. As it takes about 45 minutes for me to get home, this is a VERY late date for me and we both have work in the morning. I stumble around, waking him with a quick kiss goodbye before grabbing my things and walking out into the brisk night air. As I slowly descend the porch steps, I see the neighbors across the street noticing my presence. My face burns with heat. I know what this must look like. A brief glimpse in the bathroom mirror had showed my rumpled clothes, smeared make-up, and destroyed hairdo. I look like the poster child for the Walk of Shame calendar.
Did Bob and I do anything wrong? In my mind, no. We didn't mean to fall asleep together. We definitely didn't fool around. My appearance, combined with the late hour, gave an impression that probably tarnished, if not ruined, my reputation with that neighbor (and whomever they tell). The question is, then, whose responsibility is it if others start hearing--and believing--that I'm not as chaste as I say I am?
Personally, I believe it's 50/50, even though in reality that's hardly the case. While I do have the responsibility to set an alarm on my phone, tend to my appearance before I leave Bob's house, and try to make sure we don't end up in situations (such as cuddling platonically on the floor) that could be potentially damaging to our reputations, I think the neighbors also have the responsibility to check out the situation before spreading the word. We have all lived through experiences where we made assumptions about people that ended up being dramatically--and sometimes painfully--wrong.
In our society, though, we do make assumptions about people every day--and those who see me from afar should get the same kind of image (though not as sharp--my closest friends will see pieces of my personality that strangers wouldn't) as those I am close to. My leaving Bob's house in such a disheveled state at a very late hour was the mistake. I need to be more responsible about leaving at an appropriate time, or picking different locations for our "together time," such as public places in town or watching movies at his mother's house. ((Granted, I know there are couples who do a lot in a parent's home, but I'm personally weirded out by even peck kisses in front of Bob's mom. I'm a little more affectionate in my parent's home, but still...there are extreme limits to what I will do in those places out of respect for my parents and my heebie-jeebies.))
After all, it's not just my reputation that's at stake here, but also my witness. That's really not something to mess around with.
Showing posts with label mistakes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mistakes. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth
As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
This Chocolate Bar is not a Lifesaving Device
My security has been threatened recently from many fronts. My job situation in the spring is up in the air with no safety nets surviving the storm of economics and my insane schedule. My health has thrown me a few curve balls that I'm somewhat managing. "Bob" is probably getting annoyed with my emotional swings, although he's being quite the trooper about it. I was shown some very powerful examples of how I may not be the personality type I thought I was--which may not mean anything to most people, but when it places me in a category that I don't find flattering in people, it was rather shattering. Add in the usual stress of two jobs, big projects lying uncompleted, and a cat who apparently feels a little abandoned himself, and I'm reeling.
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Monday, October 25, 2010
Risky Behavior
Getting a tattoo from a "beginner." Texting while driving, irregardless of age (in Missouri, it's only illegal if you are under 21). Bungee jumping with your dentures in. We could make a list stretch on for miles over risky things we do, but probably one of the riskiest ones would be far down on the list despite it being one that we humans do every day. Talking to other people.
Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.
Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.
The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.
By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.
I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!
Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"
"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"
A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.
Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.
Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.
The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.
By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.
I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!
Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"
"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"
A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Don't Tempt Me...
During a phone call with a friend, she said that the two of us should just run away for a week, buy plane tickets to somewhere with a non-oiled beach, and just use our credit cards to buy us a little sun-infused happiness. "Don't tempt me" was my reply. It struck me just how often I use this little turn of phrase. I usually mean it non-literally, a way of saying no in a fun manner. Truthfully, though, it's something I should say seriously more often than I do.
Everyone gets tempted (even Jesus!). It's really easy to rationalize our way into giving in, too. It's just one brownie. I am really hungry. No one really gives speeding tickets for going four miles over the speed limit. It's just one kiss. No one will ever know. It all comes down to one big misconception: I can handle this. The problem is that no matter what the temptation is, if it's tempting, then we can't handle it. If we could, it wouldn't be a problem.
Satan knows our weaknesses. I don't have any problems with illegal drugs, so he doesn't use those against me. He does tempt me with eating way too much junk food (especially chocolate) because he knows it's something that can have an effect on me. He will tempt us to make unwise decisions. Maybe it's spending money we don't really have or wasting the time that we do have. Maybe it's putting some desire ahead of God and His plans. Maybe it's just the right stressors to distract us from the love and peace in His service. Maybe it's all of the above. He will lie to us, tantalizing our senses with harmful thoughts and actions that seem perfectly "normal" or "appropriate." The truth is that even sugar-coated lies are still that--lies. They may feel good going down, but the havoc they wreak on our digestion, as well as the lack of nutrients they offer for our body and soul, is hardly worth the moments of bliss.
I challenged myself to write down the specific sins I have trouble with--and the list was eye-opening. I started to see little habits, subtle changes in behavior or lifestyle, that reflected not God but a temptation taken too far. For someone who felt that she was pretty much "good with God," I got a wake-up call to my active sinful nature running amok in the background. If you're feeling brave, try this for yourself. You may be shocked at what turns up.
Erecting new boundaries, rules, and protective "bubbles" around certain areas of my life to keep me from falling back into these sinful patterns isn't easy or fun. It's much easier to just let myself have a few wild moments here and there and deal with the slight repercussions later--after all, how much can it matter in the long run? Unfortunately, it matters a lot. I can't afford to be callous to my struggles. Separating me from the one true rock in my life only puts me at greater risk of being swept out to sea during the next great storm. I nearly drowned once before. Momentary pleasures aren't worth dying for.
Everyone gets tempted (even Jesus!). It's really easy to rationalize our way into giving in, too. It's just one brownie. I am really hungry. No one really gives speeding tickets for going four miles over the speed limit. It's just one kiss. No one will ever know. It all comes down to one big misconception: I can handle this. The problem is that no matter what the temptation is, if it's tempting, then we can't handle it. If we could, it wouldn't be a problem.
Satan knows our weaknesses. I don't have any problems with illegal drugs, so he doesn't use those against me. He does tempt me with eating way too much junk food (especially chocolate) because he knows it's something that can have an effect on me. He will tempt us to make unwise decisions. Maybe it's spending money we don't really have or wasting the time that we do have. Maybe it's putting some desire ahead of God and His plans. Maybe it's just the right stressors to distract us from the love and peace in His service. Maybe it's all of the above. He will lie to us, tantalizing our senses with harmful thoughts and actions that seem perfectly "normal" or "appropriate." The truth is that even sugar-coated lies are still that--lies. They may feel good going down, but the havoc they wreak on our digestion, as well as the lack of nutrients they offer for our body and soul, is hardly worth the moments of bliss.
I challenged myself to write down the specific sins I have trouble with--and the list was eye-opening. I started to see little habits, subtle changes in behavior or lifestyle, that reflected not God but a temptation taken too far. For someone who felt that she was pretty much "good with God," I got a wake-up call to my active sinful nature running amok in the background. If you're feeling brave, try this for yourself. You may be shocked at what turns up.
Erecting new boundaries, rules, and protective "bubbles" around certain areas of my life to keep me from falling back into these sinful patterns isn't easy or fun. It's much easier to just let myself have a few wild moments here and there and deal with the slight repercussions later--after all, how much can it matter in the long run? Unfortunately, it matters a lot. I can't afford to be callous to my struggles. Separating me from the one true rock in my life only puts me at greater risk of being swept out to sea during the next great storm. I nearly drowned once before. Momentary pleasures aren't worth dying for.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A request you can't deny
A prayer I pray a lot, especially lately, is "God, show me what you want me to do." Note the word choice there--show me. Yes, I'm from Missouri, which indicates one of two things depending on which story you believe about the origin of our state motto: I am either slow on the uptake and need to be shown everything to understand it, or I want proof before I will act on something. In my prayer life, it's a little of both. I admit to being a bit dense sometimes when it comes to making decisions. For instance, I was battling with a particularly sticky situation when a friend came in and, with common sense, parted the murky waters I was wandering lost in. The light bulb indicating my EUREKA! moments is apparently more of a flickering candle than, say, an incandesent wonder.
So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.
I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.
Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?
I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.
God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.
I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.
This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.
I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.
Not all of us can be like the Centennial light and keep burning nonstop for 109 years...but who wants to be right and wise every single time for that long?
So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.
I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.
Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?
I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.
A bum hip is only one tragic excuse away...
God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.
I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.
This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.
I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.
Americans have given their lives in response to an ad from a fictional character. How can we expect any less from a request from a very real God?
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Decisions
Anticipation tastes like good dark chocolate: complex, a little unexpected, but with sweet rewards at the end. My literary equivalent of 70% Madagascan cacao is currently swirling through my mind as I type. Today the 60% completion mark on in-depth edits is finished. I can see the finish line looming ahead, the knowledge that a read-aloud edit is almost here, and then...it's ready for submission. As much as I love working on this text, I'm ready for it to be out of my hands.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
Anger management is a lot easier when you can rationally think about the costs to replace necessary items beforehand...(although with how old this set is, it probably only costs about $20 nowadays).
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
An author's love-hate relationship with writing brings a whole new definition to two-faced; although, with all the characters living vivid lives in our heads, we already have multiple personality disorder, so being just two-faced is probably a step in the right direction.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
Friday, July 16, 2010
How to get out of a speeding ticket...
I have been pulled over a total of two times in my life. The first was a state trooper who stopped me to make sure that I knew I had a headlight out (I had bought a replacement bulb and was driving home so I could repair it...amusing timing). The second happened last night...but it wasn't so innocent.
In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.
A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.
The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.
"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"
I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."
"I clocked you at 26."
I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.
"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"
My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.
"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."
The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!
In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.
I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.
Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"
I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.
The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."
I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.
Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.
So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.
In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.
A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.
The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.
"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"
I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."
"I clocked you at 26."
I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.
"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"
My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.
"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."
The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!
In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.
I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.
Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"
I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.
The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."
I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.
Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.
So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Logic Bombs
A friend of mine was telling me the other day about a situation she found herself in a few years ago. She was at church and a few older people had mentioned that they didn't think her attire was quite appropriate for being in services. She saw absolutely nothing wrong with the outfit--it covered everything, was a moderate length, and there was only a tiny hint of cleavage (and she's a very buxom woman, so it's hard to avoid "showing the line"). Being judged isn't something any person wants to have happen, and some respond very strongly to this kind of scenario. I've seen women burst into tears immediately after the confrontation, locking themselves into bathroom stalls for nearly an hour. I've seen women decide to "give 'em a show" in order to contrast "truly inappropriate" attire with what they normally wore--in one case, a 30ish lady donned stripper heels, a miniskirt that didn't even cover the bottom of her bottom, and a top that left nothing to the imagination.
I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.
We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.
Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.
What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.
You don't have to cover every inch of skin, but the congregation can't blur you out, either.
I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.
While I'm sure the rhyme has helped many a person stay safe when dealing with snakes, I just scream and run no matter what they look like--that way instead of a 50% chance, I'm hitting closer to 100% of surviving the encounter.
We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.
Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.
What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Erasing Poetry
Ok, ok. So not everyone likes poetry. I can't really blame them too much--I used to be one of them. I mean, I wrote the sing-songy, uber-rhyming, cliche-ridden poems in high school like many teenage girls, but when it came to good poetry, I really didn't like it. I was even an English major for years and still didn't like it. My poetic problems weren't so much an issue with what I was reading but rather how I was reading it.
Poetry, in truth, was not at all like how it had been presented to me throughout my early years of public education. I had been taught to read the lines and figure out what exactly it was supposed to mean, usually because there was a written response or a multiple-choice question involved. There were right and wrong answers to the symbolism, theme, and meter of poetry, just like there were right and wrong answers to the chemical formula for photosynthesis and subject/verb agreement for "she went to the store." It wasn't until I reached graduate school (yes, my sixth year of English studies) that I learned to appreciate poetry...through a class on how to teach poetry to students. The biggest thing I had to learn was that poetry is subjective by its very nature...and that's ok.
Once I let go of my right/wrong attitude and adopted the better founded/unsubstantiated stance, poetry became intriguing and almost addictive to me. While there were some meanings that wouldn't make sense simply because they couldn't be logically connected to the poem's imagery (and yes, imagery and sound are two of the most important parts of many poems...so much so that the words themselves can be meaningless--just their sounds matter), as long as you could find some sort of decent (hopefully strong) connection, it fit. After all, no one really knows what the author was thinking/feeling/meaning 100% of the time...sometimes not even the author him/herself.
Still...putting words on paper in poetic form was difficult. There were formulas for sonnets and haiku that helped, but to just let go of meaning and enjoy the nonsensical abstractness of words, images, and sounds (especially just disjointed ones) was extremely difficult. Enter a new muse: Mary Ruefle. I met the well-known poet in person once as part of a conference, and while I didn't connect with her personally, I adored a small book of hers. A Little White Shadow. It was the first I had ever seen of erasure-style poetry, a twist on found poetry but more raw and semi-artistic (The hard-to-find Humument by Tom Phillips is extremely artistic and more intense as it attempts to be its own story-within-a-story). The point of erasure poetry was to find prose, even really bad prose, and locate the gems of disjointed words that, when brought together through erasing all that was around them, created new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes erasures are completely silly images or statements. Sometimes they end up profound. The challenge of using only words already printed on the page, and then figuring out how to work with their existing order, was like the ultimate word-search puzzle with hidden prizes under the ink.
I was wanting to play around with this new composing form, so I picked up a 25-cent paperback copy of The Horse Without A Head from a sorority's booksale fundraiser on campus. It had some good words that popped out at me while I flipped through pages, the copyright had to be nearly up if I ever decided to publish my reworking of the text, and the original children's mystery was...horrible. Even the worst erasure of the text would be an improvement. For the next few days, I carried the conveniently-sized book in my purse, along with a purple pen, and began outlining the text I would keep. Over the next few months, I experimented with different types of white-out, acrylic paint, and correction fluids to banish the unworthy words from the page. I rather liked the non-uniformity of the erasing, with some pages glossy with white and others hosting cracked strips of eggshell tape. It was a wonderfully freeing exercise...and the creativity born in erasure poetry not only spurned wonderful poetic images that I wove into my prose, but eventually led to a few freeverse poems that I'm actually rather proud of.
My retitled collection of erasure poems, He With A Head, includes nearly two hundred pages of good, great, and uh-oh bad erasures. Most are to be taken individually, a single moment to be considered, perhaps savored, and then either stored away for future musings or tossed aside like an amusing but meaningless status update on Facebook. Not being able to draw a straight line meant some words were accidentally erased too much...and it was more of a playbook than a truly careful endeavor, so I wasn't super-obsessive about neatness. It's a little messy...kind of like me. Erasure lets me do that.
So to look at the title poem for my rediscovered text..."He with a head should pay dearly for it." What does it mean? Maybe it means that those who have the awareness of decision also have the awareness of consequences. Maybe it means that men who think logically will suffer for it (especially when they're around PMSing women). Maybe it means that being able to think is such a precious thing, a costly thing, something that should be valued much more than it is (the intellect versus, say, braun). Maybe it means that this guy is about to have one huge headache and needs to take an Excedrin. It could mean any of these. It could mean none of them. Ultimately, erasure is about taking away...in order to give. What meaning will you give this piece?
Or this one?
Poetry, in truth, was not at all like how it had been presented to me throughout my early years of public education. I had been taught to read the lines and figure out what exactly it was supposed to mean, usually because there was a written response or a multiple-choice question involved. There were right and wrong answers to the symbolism, theme, and meter of poetry, just like there were right and wrong answers to the chemical formula for photosynthesis and subject/verb agreement for "she went to the store." It wasn't until I reached graduate school (yes, my sixth year of English studies) that I learned to appreciate poetry...through a class on how to teach poetry to students. The biggest thing I had to learn was that poetry is subjective by its very nature...and that's ok.
Once I let go of my right/wrong attitude and adopted the better founded/unsubstantiated stance, poetry became intriguing and almost addictive to me. While there were some meanings that wouldn't make sense simply because they couldn't be logically connected to the poem's imagery (and yes, imagery and sound are two of the most important parts of many poems...so much so that the words themselves can be meaningless--just their sounds matter), as long as you could find some sort of decent (hopefully strong) connection, it fit. After all, no one really knows what the author was thinking/feeling/meaning 100% of the time...sometimes not even the author him/herself.
Still...putting words on paper in poetic form was difficult. There were formulas for sonnets and haiku that helped, but to just let go of meaning and enjoy the nonsensical abstractness of words, images, and sounds (especially just disjointed ones) was extremely difficult. Enter a new muse: Mary Ruefle. I met the well-known poet in person once as part of a conference, and while I didn't connect with her personally, I adored a small book of hers. A Little White Shadow. It was the first I had ever seen of erasure-style poetry, a twist on found poetry but more raw and semi-artistic (The hard-to-find Humument by Tom Phillips is extremely artistic and more intense as it attempts to be its own story-within-a-story). The point of erasure poetry was to find prose, even really bad prose, and locate the gems of disjointed words that, when brought together through erasing all that was around them, created new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes erasures are completely silly images or statements. Sometimes they end up profound. The challenge of using only words already printed on the page, and then figuring out how to work with their existing order, was like the ultimate word-search puzzle with hidden prizes under the ink.
I was wanting to play around with this new composing form, so I picked up a 25-cent paperback copy of The Horse Without A Head from a sorority's booksale fundraiser on campus. It had some good words that popped out at me while I flipped through pages, the copyright had to be nearly up if I ever decided to publish my reworking of the text, and the original children's mystery was...horrible. Even the worst erasure of the text would be an improvement. For the next few days, I carried the conveniently-sized book in my purse, along with a purple pen, and began outlining the text I would keep. Over the next few months, I experimented with different types of white-out, acrylic paint, and correction fluids to banish the unworthy words from the page. I rather liked the non-uniformity of the erasing, with some pages glossy with white and others hosting cracked strips of eggshell tape. It was a wonderfully freeing exercise...and the creativity born in erasure poetry not only spurned wonderful poetic images that I wove into my prose, but eventually led to a few freeverse poems that I'm actually rather proud of.
My retitled collection of erasure poems, He With A Head, includes nearly two hundred pages of good, great, and uh-oh bad erasures. Most are to be taken individually, a single moment to be considered, perhaps savored, and then either stored away for future musings or tossed aside like an amusing but meaningless status update on Facebook. Not being able to draw a straight line meant some words were accidentally erased too much...and it was more of a playbook than a truly careful endeavor, so I wasn't super-obsessive about neatness. It's a little messy...kind of like me. Erasure lets me do that.
So to look at the title poem for my rediscovered text..."He with a head should pay dearly for it." What does it mean? Maybe it means that those who have the awareness of decision also have the awareness of consequences. Maybe it means that men who think logically will suffer for it (especially when they're around PMSing women). Maybe it means that being able to think is such a precious thing, a costly thing, something that should be valued much more than it is (the intellect versus, say, braun). Maybe it means that this guy is about to have one huge headache and needs to take an Excedrin. It could mean any of these. It could mean none of them. Ultimately, erasure is about taking away...in order to give. What meaning will you give this piece?
Or this one?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Paying Attention
Today I made a big mistake while teaching. I work in a computer lab, and the teacher's computer can be projected onto a large screen at the front of the class--ideal for watching films, discussing papers together, etc. I had powered it up to walk students through how to format their portfolios that are due in two days and everything was going fine. The instructions over, I gave them class time to work on their projects while I pulled up old essays to finish grading.
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
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